


Sticks and Stones

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [27]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, F/M, Gen, M/M, Spoilers through the Chosen Saga, i love the boobs so much, im coping so well with the quarantine, names have power, staving off depression with fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose,By any other word would smell as sweet.(Or: every name the Boobs have had to answer to.)
Relationships: Balnor the Brave & Moonshine Cybin & Hardwon Surefoot & Beverly Toegold V
Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1312925
Comments: 42
Kudos: 75





	1. Hardwon Surefoot

**Author's Note:**

> I, similar to Jake, must create or I will go stir-crazy.
> 
> I wanted to do something not sad. This isn't necessarily not sad, but it isn't sad, if that makes sense. Some of it is so sweet it hurts, the saccharine taste of tacky syrup that sticks uncomfortably to your teeth and tongue.
> 
> Hardwon, then Moonshine, Bev, and Balnor. In that order.
> 
> Shouldn't take me too long to finish each chapter. (Don't hold me to that.)
> 
> Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human, Hardwon Surefoot, Kid, Elias Jr., Bastard, Tall-Dwarf, Brother, Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardwon is my son and I love him.
> 
> I also project real hard and like to think of his decision to name himself — coz I don't think that "Hardwon Surefoot" is a Dwarf name in the slightest — as a very trans-journey type thing. I, myself, am proud of the name I have chosen for myself.
> 
> I don't know if the rest of these will be as sad as Hardwon? I can't make any promises, but I do have them drafted, to some degree.
> 
> Be safe and try and find some kind of outlet during these interesting times. I, for instance, have been playing the new Animal Crossing. It's very zen. I love it so far.

**i.**

He's six and bare faced and they're _looking_ at him. He doesn't have a name— _none_ of them really do—but his is a mark of shame. He isn't _like_ them. _Different_. Odd. Off. _Human_.

He's too big for his skin, too tall for his home, a thin spider of a person crammed into a body that feels all _wrong_. Elbows and legs and he has to work _so_ much harder to be _seen_ but their eyes follow him around the room. He wants to _disappear_. He wants to _be seen_. He can't have both but he wants them. Oh, _Morridan_ , he _wants_.

It's _too much_ and _not enough_ all at once. He doesn't know _what_ to do with this feeling that curls in around his heart and squeezes, leaving him short of breath and angry and crying. He doesn't understand _why_ they stare, _why_ he wants them to look but _the way_ they do it hurts more than scrapes and cuts and scuffles from getting into tiffs with the other dwarfans.

He doesn't have a name yet but _they_ call him Human and he can't help but hear the sharp pointed tip of that designation as it digs into his walls. So instead of breaking down—crying, giving up, being soft, being _human_ —he builds his walls higher and faster than _any_ dwarf down in Irondeep. Ringing to each brick laid, human _human **human.**_

A designation, a mark of shame, _a_ _disappointment_.

But he answers because he has nothing else.

And within his fortress he cries at night.

* * *

**ii.**

He picked it himself. _His name_. **_His_**. A possession that _no one_ could take from him. And now that he's out from under Irondeep, chest puffed with pride and excitement, it's the _only_ thing he's gonna be known as.

"Hardwon Surefoot" he introduces himself to Moonshine, to Bev, to Shay, to Denny, to _anyone_ who will listen. Hard-won. Sure of foot.

_His name_. One he _made_ for himself, with bloodied hands and shaking lungs, eyes blurred with tears and skin soaked in sweat, dirty with the day's work.

And they call him by his name, even early-on. Not "you" or "boy" or "human" or "asshole". "Hardwon." _**His name.**_

It's his _by_ _choice_ , like this strange niche he's carving out for himself, and every time it's said it sends a sharp shock of joy through him.

_His name. **His.**_

_Hardwon **motherfucking** Surefoot._

* * *

**iii.**

He's never felt it; his age. Next to Bev—a teen, growing up, still awkward and in-between stages of his life—and Moonshine— _about_ his age, wild and smart, though he _kinda_ knows _something_ about elves and how she's actually _really young_ for her folk, so _comparatively_ she's the youngest of them—he was just one of them. _But then_ there's this ratfolk saying he knew his parents and the bottom drops out of his heart as the guy— _his uncle,_ insofar as one _can_ be, in name only, but names have _power_ —calls him kid with the wild abandon of someone seeing the dead.

" _Kid_." He feels young here, standing in front of his parents' friends. He feels younger as they explain _who_ his ma is. _What_ she is. Who they _met_. Who they _fought_. _What her deal is._

He hasn't felt like this in a decade or so and it grips him with a claw made of fear and panic and _ohh_ , he wants to be a kid because then he could _break_ , but he's an _adult_ , a _role model,_ and the joy that buoys his chest keeps him afloat _for now_ , at least.

He has parents. _One_ of them is alive, _kinda_. He has people who _knew_ them. He has a name. _Had_ a name. A _legacy_. A _home_. A _place_.

Had. _Had. **Had.**_ Past-tense.

Now he _has_ , but it's _different_. Should he waste time on could-have-been? _No_. Will he anyway? _Yeah, probably._

He's _young_ , comparatively, and it _hurts_. **_It hurts._**

But he has something. _Had_ something. _One_ parent. **_One._**

It's more than _none_ , isn't it?

* * *

**iv.**

It's _not_ his name. That's _fine_. It doesn't _have_ to be his name, coz _she's_ the one saying it.

_His_ mom. His _mommy_. Lydia Stormborn.

_Morridan_ , just _thinking_ about the fact that he _has_ a mom and she is _alive_ —in a sense—and she's _so goddamn badass_ and she _loves_ him enough to want to fight his friends for teasing him? It sets his heart running. He's _so_ full. So _content_.

He barely cares that it's not his name because it's _her_. She's calling _him_. She says "Elias Jr." and _means him_ and he answers coz it's _his mommy_ and _she loves him_.

_He has a mom_ and a name _she_ gave him and it's enough to make him want to be held, to be safe, to let go for a little while. He has a mom and she loves him and _didn't mean to leave_. It's a type of closure, this strange catharsis he experiences.

It's not _his_ name but it's what _she_ calls him and he'll answer to it _so long as it's her_. So long as it's said _with love_. So long as it's _meant for him._

He'll answer to it until he _can't_ anymore.

* * *

**v.**

An insult, spit from bloodied lips, but he couldn't care less. _Fuck them_. Fuck _every last one of them_. Fist in his gut draws sour spit and he drools in his beard as they jeer. "Fucking _bastard_ ," they call. They're not _wrong_.

He takes that insult and shapes it like a precious gem, rounding edges into the soft curve of a cabochon he sets into his crown like a prize. If they wanna sling that shit then he'll take the time to polish the turd for _all it's worth._

When he meets new people he belts titles with his name; bravado, _maybe_ , but titles are names he can take for himself. So when he calls himself " _Bastard of the Mountain_ " it is an act of _rebellion_.

_See if you can hurt him **now** , with a name he's taken **for himself**._ The reclamation of the word is enough to make him smile, bared teeth in a fierce warning.

He's made of tougher stuff and his walls are _far_ too high for simple slings and stones to hit him here, in his castle of denial.

And _so what_ if his parents weren't married when they had him? At least he _has_ parents.

* * *

**vi.**

Standing there, cold as hell, he finds no hatred in his chest for this strange wasteland of silver and white. Instead he feels... _longing_? _Comfort_ , perhaps.

_Granted_ , this was the last place he saw Gemma alive, but he's found a form of peace with that. And, _granted_ , this place doesn't have a _lot_ of happy memories associated with it for him—Gemma, Jaina, Akarot, Gerrard—but he _can't_ let them die. He _can't_ let a city die for his own bitter feelings.

And when it comes down to it, the Queenshammer passing between him and Cyrus Coldain like a dance, he feels he's done right by _any_ and _every_ dwarf who came before him.

The frost dwarves, faces pink with exertion, bloodied and panicked, watch him finish off the tarrasque. The frost dwarves, a city of warriors and stubborn defenders, watch as he stops another assassination on their grounds, panic flashing through his limbs as he thinks of blood and a blade and the hole in his heart. The frost dwarves, a moment of pinched confusion passing as their king acknowledges them as heroes and kin, call out in one unified cry and he feels vindicated in a place he _never_ thought he would be.

* * *

**vii.**

Beverly and Moonshine are a kind of relationship he _never_ thought he'd have. Not _just_ a close friendship—because that was always a pipe dream as out of reach as the stars in the sky and the diamonds mined out and given to the nobles and royals—but _more_ than that. More close. More specific. More careful.

Before he has a word for it, he would say it was a type of intimate love and desire. The need to protect and save and make them as happy as he can.

When he _has_ words, it's " _family_ ".

It is insanely intimate and kind and warm, the type of feelings he was _never_ allowed but _now_? Now he curls against them in bed and his heart skips when Bev or Moonshine call him "brother" because it means _wanted_. Needed. **_Loved_**.

It's an echo, warm and living, of green in the walls of his fortress that are coming down _one by one_. A story of the sun causing the slow removal of a coat, not by force, but by _patience_ and _warmth_.

He takes down layers for them. His brother, his sister, his family.

In bed, heartbeats in synch, smiling brighter than the moon or any arcane glow they've ever seen, he is _content_.

* * *

**viii.**

It's an _earned_ name, a _calling_ , an echo in the hearts of _every_ person he's _ever_ seen.

Save us. _Save us. **Save us.**_

_Help, **please**._

_You can do it._

It's the smiles of happy younguns in Gladeholm, _despite_ the curfew and terror and tumult. It's the _relief_ in Martha Toegold's crying as she wraps Bev up and doesn't let go for a solid few minutes. It's the sound of airships full of dwarfans and refugees, headed by a proud, hollering Jaina. It's the cries of "What _now_? What _next_? _Who_ will take up this mantle?"

It's eyes turning to him and him realizing he doesn't _want_ to be seen, but their gaze doesn't _burn_ like it used to.

And they label them _heroes_. They label _him_ hero.

And the burden with the name is tenfold, but he squares his shoulders.

He's mined through Irondeep. He's killed evil men and women and even indifferent gods. He's won a mage tournament _without_ magic. He's trekked through Hell and come out stronger. He's done a _dozen_ impossible things in his lifetime.

Hero is a feasible title. He can bear this name with pride.

He doesn't _seek_ their gaze but bears it with a bright grin. He projects hope and strength that _they_ might find solace in his ease.

He _can_ do this. He's _not_ alone. He has his _family_ , his _friends_ , his _whole world_ ready to help.

_Besides_ , there will _always_ be heroes, so long as they're needed. He's just the next in a long line, and there's comfort in a well-trodden path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but so will a warhammer to the knees." — Hardwon Surefoot (trademark Laslo)


	2. Moonshine Cybin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crick, Ma'am, Moonshine, Moonie, Jolene, Daughter, Fool, Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moonshine is one of those characters that fights me with everything she has. No matter how many times I write her, she always feels incomplete and wrong. This was no different.
> 
> I think it's because a large portion of our understanding of Moonshine is her as a mirror or foil for some other character. She is what others need of her, when they need it, rarely what she needs of herself. What color is a mirror when it has nothing to reflect? Who is Moonshine when she has no one to be for? In that vein, the closest we've gotten is the Moonshine that cries alone in the Crick, the Moonshine that takes a walk with Bubbles in Emberheaven, the Moonshine that sits down with Pendergreens and talks about eternal loneliness and kindness and burdens no one person should bear. That is the truest Moonshine I've seen, I think, and while she is kind and she is angry, she is kind to a point of self sacrifice and her anger is something she's only now allowing herself to express because now it's useful.
> 
> Plus she's just hella dynamic throughout all of NADDPOD and that makes her hard to nail down unless you think about when she is as well as who she's with.
> 
> Anyway, shoutout to Kes and Hannah, for being my go-to when I wasn't sure what the fuck I needed to do next.
> 
> I'm still vaguely dissatisfied with this but, ehh, if I continue to be a perfectionist, I'll never publish it. So here we are.
> 
> "I don't know if the rest of these will be as sad as Hardwon" I said in the first chapter, thinking I, Regis of Angst and Cassandr, would be able to avoid sad. Ha. No.
> 
> This one is very sad in an introspective and Moonshine way.

**i.**

She knows, more than _anyone_ , that folks don't see her as equal coz of her people. Coz she's _a Crick_.

She knows they only see an uneducated, mud-covered, gap-toothed, idiot with a possum in her overalls.

It doesn't make it any _easier_ , but she doesn't mind when it gives her a leg-up. _Especially_ when they start underestimating her intelligence. Even if it sets her hackles up.

In Ezry, smiling pretty as Duttle talks big game, mushroom spores flickering at her fingertips. In Galaderon, mouth moving fast as she offers an alternative to a murder, _postponing_ an execution with promise of a party. In the Crick, burying anger as she promises Chosen shits _she'll have a cure_. In Frostwind, stringing a dwarf along her finger for entry to a party. In the Frozen North, chasing Wilhelm because _like hell_ she trusts _him_. In the Faewild, with Tupperware full of safe food and eyes cast to tiny details, ears perked for words and wording. In Shadowfell, face set in righteous fury as she avenges Hardwon and drowns _every_ damn skeeter in their _goddamn_ grave. In Hill Holm, confronting her father and finding him _different_. In Gladeholm, with _every_ high elf that sneers down their damn noses at her, but she wins the tournament and grins a goddamn mile a minute, proud as hell. In the Astral Plane, she stares down a company of dwarves and humans and other races, all scared, and speaks to bolster her friends coz _they_ know how this goes and _no one is listening_. In Hell, finding loopholes in contracts in her favor and smiling like a shark smelling blood on the tide.

She doesn't _hate_ it when they underestimate her.

She just wishes _her friends_ wouldn't do it to her too.

* * *

**ii.**

It's _strange_ to have these kids look at her, up to her, and give her respect. Not like young _Bev_ doesn't give her respect—he _does_ , in the same way that these kids, _his friends_ , do, but she's been in battle with him, so it's _different_ —and not like _Hardwon_ doesn't give her respect—he _does_ , though his is more that he _listens_ and _considers_ her opinions, something _most_ folks don't do for Cricks—but they're _so young_ and it makes her strangely uncomfortable for them to do this. It feels like rubbing a possum the wrong way, fur crinkling upwards against tense muscles.

" _Yes ma'am!_ " The Green Teens chorus and her stomach drops into her feet.

She can't articulate _what_ it is that sets her off but it's _something_ like—

—younguns rolling over each other, bright eyes looking at her, calling out _her name_ coz she's their _sister_ , their _Moonshine_ —

—she's little herself, smiling up at Cooter, screaming _his name_ like she has nothing better to do, coz she doesn't—

—learning magic from MeeMaw and fighting from one of her siblings and how to wrestle from one of the Petris and a _dozen_ other things from people who don't use _ma'am_ or _sir_ for _nobody_ coz _everyone_ is equal here—

— _maybe_ it's a respect thing, but she only calls _one_ person ma'am and it's her MeeMaw and _even then_ , it's tongue in cheek and smiling. Something silly that _they_ , the folks at the Crick, do. This _sincere_ respect, _reverence_ , is enough to make her feel slick and oily inside.

" _Now_ none of that," she says, "it's _just_ Moonshine." But they keep up, though young Bev manages to get it down to "Scoutmaster Moonshine" so it's a title instead.

It's _something_. Not _much_ , but _something_.

And at least it isn't putting her _too_ high above them.

* * *

**iii.**

Ain't _nothin_ like someone howling your name as you keep them pinned face-down in the mud. _Especially_ if, moments before, they'd been talking like they knew who their daddy was. Fills your chest with warmth and pride and, _sure_ , _some_ folks say that's a sin, but _they_ ain't ever been proud of themselves _like this_.

It's an accomplishment _worth_ being proud of.

She's got Brandy under her hip, her arms beating against her ribs. One of the Petris is marking the pin— _seven, eight, nine, **ten!**_ —and she lets go. Brandy pops up and swings, cuffing her ear, but they aren't younguns any more, so the blow just sets her hearing ringing instead of blinding her to boot.

"Moonshine, _you_ _bitch_ , how _dare_ you?" She hisses, muck dripping down her chin as she rubs her mud-crusted bangs from her eyes. "Pullin' my hair like that was dirty and _you know it._ "

" _Oh_? Like biting my ear _wasn't_ dirty?" Moonshine grins at Brandy, who spits in her face. Moonshine shrieks and pounces on her again and the match starts all over, Petri laughing for all the world as he makes sure nothing _too_ awful occurs. Some of the younguns start placing brown leaf bets on who will win this time. _Most_ of them say Moonshine.

Way back when, it was the _other_ way around.

After everything is said and done, during dinner, everyone greets her by name and she does the same. Coz the Crick, despite what _others_ may say, is her home, and she _loves_ it. _Everyone_ knows your name at home.

She doesn't even think twice when MeeMaw calls her up to her stump, a strange look on her face. Why would _she_ be worried?

She's at home and home is _safe_.

* * *

**iv.**

Hardwon Surefoot is a strange man. _Sure_ , it isn't like she's known many humanmen in her life—those that passed through the Crick often thought themselves _better_ than the folk that lived there, barely disguising their contempt with _sotto voce_ whispers and lilting backhanded compliments—but he's something _different_. He's steadfast and centered. _Despite_ his many faults, he's loyal beyond belief. He openly experiences new things _every time he can_ —even to his _detriment_.

He loves the Crick before _ever_ setting foot in it. Learns to love it by way of her food and her words and her actions. Starry-eyed, he picks up and holds on to _any_ bit of _her home_ she brings up. It _probably_ has to do with _his own_ upbringing—unwanted, a human among dwarves in a system that doesn't care for anyone who can't care for themself, abandoned—but he loves the _community_ of it all. _He's_ more Crick than anyone she's met so far and it's _wild_ that she'd never have thought he wasn't Crick by birth if she didn't know about Irondeep.

When she has a hard time, curled against him and Bev in their shared sleeping space, during the time between Gladeholm—a nightmare of burning and fallen heroes and a lost home—and the Crick—she _abandoned_ her home and _now_ she knew what best to do, to seek out someone spoken of in whispers, hidden out of fear and _shame_ and **_panic_** —he cards his fingers through her hair and pulls out rat nests. Then, with deft precision that she recognizes as something he _must've_ learned for someone else, he braids her hair into complicated plaits and soothingly hums mining songs and lullabies. Bestows upon her something no one else has before: a nickname.

" _C'mon_. Up and at'em, Moonie. We have a Crick to visit. You can't sleep in _all_ day."

It's _such_ a _small_ thing, a nickname, but she's never been outside of her home for _this_ long and she's _never_ known someone that hasn't known her since she was _real_ little, so this private gift of a name that is _of_ and _for_ her alone is a star she holds to her chest.

Coz she's Moonshine, she's a Crick, she's MeeMaw's girl, but _to_ _him_ , she's _Moonie_ , and _that's_ something _so_ special that she's certain she'll _never_ be able to repay him for it.

* * *

**v.**

Marabelle is a sad story, a warning, a terror, a nightmare, _and her aunt_. It doesn't help that she _wants_ to hate her, _wants_ to hate this woman who hurt her people, the Crick, like this. She _wants_ to find some _one, some **thing**_ , to be mad at. So it's the Rot, it's Marabelle, and when Marabelle is sympathetic— _manipulated_ in a moment of anger and fear and clarity by an elf who has decided that the world should bend to _his_ whims, something evil and awful that sits with a crown on his head and a smug fucking grin on a face she's going to see decapitated one day in the not-too-distant future—she feels _revulsion_ fill the space of her anger as it redirects itself and course corrects.

Marabelle is a sad story because she was hurt and taken and _then_ , when she was changed against her will, she was _buried_ and _hushed_ and Moonshine _wants_ to be sympathetic of her MeeMaw, of Cobb, of the Old Folks, but she is just too angry to see the forest for this one tree.

( _I'm **sorry** Jolene. I'm **sorry** Jolene. I'm **sorry** Jolene._)

(Hands outstretched, one last moment of regret before black bile and rot and fungal consumption, a cry, a _plea_.)

( _I'm **sorry** Jolene_.)

Marabelle is a sad story because she is a sad person. She is a _warning_ , a _boogeyman_ , but hushed for the shame of it. For the memories. For the pain. And while Moonshine _understands_ the pain that memories can have—sharp barbs of glass and pointed metal, stabbing vulnerable places that spells can't heal, and they aren't removed but when you remember they exist they hurt more, each reminder pushing the weapon deeper in—she deserved better. _Deserves_ better.

Marabelle, weakened, done, looks up at Moonshine—and for _all_ the pain she's caused and the hurt and the manipulation, she's _still_ a person and she deserves comfort and love and assurance and this is her mother's sister, _her aunt_ , and she _cares_ —smiling. She holds out a hand, offers the truth, and the last words from her mouth are at Moonshine but for someone entirely different.

" _I'm **sorry** Jolene_."

And Moonshine _forgives_ her.

* * *

**vi.**

She doesn't know _how_ to feel.

There's a pain in this knowledge—a barb torn out by Ezra in battle, to dig at a weakness that she _knew_ would hurt, a crafted poison _just for her_ —and it is her _heart_ and her _pride_ that suffers.

There is _also_ melancholy that settles, liquid, in the open wounds. Erdan, for all she had _distrusted_ him at first—a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by the enemy, and a _high elf_ to boot—has since proven himself worth _trusting_ and, while it was bittersweet, she would trust him if he said it was so.

And it _was_.

And, against _all_ odds, he looked _overjoyed_.

She had been _expecting_ horror or confusion or panic. She had been _expecting_ MeeMaw to be shocked _she_ knew—she _was_ , a bitter ringing note of pride that echoes in her ribcage noted—and _her daddy_ , this Lucanus Aer'tea to be _as_ shocked. _Disgusted_ even.

But he starts _crying_ once the shock wears off. _Asks_ if he can hug her. Asks if it's _okay_. Asks if she's _really_ his daughter, like word of mouth _isn't enough_.

He weeps like it's an _honor_ and she is _so_ confused.

Because she _wants_ to hate him. He's a _high elf_. They've _never_ been kind to Crick folk. And _sure_ , Erdan has been decent _enough_ , but she's learned that cooperation in times of necessity leads to prejudices to be pushed to the wayside for the greater good, only to pop back up when their rage subsides. And _sure_ , Lucanus is—according to Erdan—the one who advocated that the high elves move against Asmodeus all those years ago. But he's a high elf and he never came to the Crick when he felt like MeeMaw didn't care, never asked why, never bothered.

And she feels _petty_ because her problem is the smallest and it's being dealt with _before_ Bev and _his_ own father, and it's _unfair_ that she feels _guilty_ for having this resolution before _he_ does.

She wants to have this and wants to _not_ be doing this all at once and the bitter resentment that is birthed from her conflict _bites_.

But Lucanus is a decent fellow. Strange, _for a high elf,_ which means he's _probably_ as dirty as they come, and _genuine_. He wants to know her. Wants to be her father, or something _akin_ to it. He wants to be in her life and, for _all_ the resentment and anger and petty fucking feelings she has, she can't deny him that.

It's hospitality 101: _your door is open to those who will need it._

And she gets used to it fast, these expectations he has for her, as low as they might be. And a surge of pride takes her breath away as she sits atop a throne with an ancient elven artifact on her head and wins a tournament for the good guys, the shriek of his voice over the din proclaiming his claim to her.

In the roar of hundreds of elven spectators, only one voice stands out to her, calling " _That's **my daughter**!_"

And she can't help but love him.

_That_ , too, is in her nature.

* * *

**vii.**

They're in Hell and she's angrier than she's been for a _long_ time but now it has a direction and a _target_. Now she can say, with surety and clarity, that she _hates_ Akarot and wants him deader than _anything_ she's _ever_ encountered—from Galad Rosell to Duttle to the Montgomery family to Thiala, by a thin margin—because he's hurt her and hers more than _anyone_ should if they want to keep living.

People tend to assume that kind means _pervasive_ and _easy to walk all over_ , but they forget that mushrooms can be toxic _and_ poisonous and that those are two different things. If _you_ bite it and you die, it's toxic. If it bites _you_ and you die, then you were dumb enough to let it get close. _And Moonshine?_ She's _both_ and she's got a plan and anger as fuel and her friends are beside her _until they're not_ but Akarot, the damn fuck, makes the same mistake as Galad did, as Snot did, as Wilhelm did, as _anyone_ who looks at her and sees a _Crick_ and not a _person_.

They think she's dumb and they're _wrong_. She knows the law of the jungle and it's eat before you're eaten. Pretty colors and pretty words make for a prime trap. They call it a honeypot for a _reason_.

So Akarot separates them and she seethes because _he_ thinks she's dumb and she's _so damn **tired**_ of people assuming that. From the high elves in Gladeholm to the rich halflings in Galaderon to the dour frost dwarves in Frostwind, everyone expects her to be like that and keep talking like she's not there and she's _done_. So for now she'll take her frustration out on this undead piece of shit who has the _gall_ to fall for the oldest trick in the book, yet turn around and call _her_ foolish.

_**Because** , dear lich, if you're smart, how come you keep letting her get **so close**? If you're **so** smart, how come you **let** her get within spores distance? If you're **so damn smart** , how come you let her get stronger with **every breath she takes?**_

If _you_ bite it and it kills you, it's toxic—like anger that bubbles beneath her skin, the type she can't get rid of by hitting shit with a sword, the type that makes her hands shake and her jaw hurt. If _it_ bites you and it kills you, it's venomous—like words said in frustration, greasing the tongue and deafening the brain, until the sharp barbs find home and you can't take them back no matter how much you try.

Take her for a fool now, Akarot, because you won't be alive to regret it for much longer.

* * *

**viii.**

She stands with Hardwon and Balnor, fists clenched at her sides, the Thinking Cap on her head, as all of Gladeholm—and, by extension, _all_ the refugees of Bahumia and Irondeep and those from the Faewild—look at them in _awe_. It makes her skin crawl, their gaze, but she smiles. She's the _smiles_ of the group, the _backbone_ supporting everyone, the _sunshine_ that illuminates their day. She has to project, to pretend, to wear the mask she's crafted for herself.

Her skin itches with the expectation of it all.

Diuana called her a queen, Alanis and Ulfgar called them heroes, Erdan and Lucanus and MeeMaw and Cobb called them generals. She can't go back to being _just Moonshine_ any more. She can't be _just Moonshine_ with this weight on her back.

( _You're sharing it,_ a voice in her head says, though she can barely hear it over the whining sound of dread in her ears. _You're not alone._ )

So she smiles. She stands, rigid. She takes it with grace.

" _Our heroes!_ " They say, and she _wants_ to like the appreciation, but all she can think about is Alanis, recounting every timeline before this one. Every dangerous and _awful_ variant of Thiala or Akarot's crimes on the world. Every time she said she felt like it was _all her fault_ , that she wasn't _enough_ of a hero. That _she_ wasn't enough.

" _They're going to kill Thiala!_ " They cheer, and she _wants_ to believe it, but she's seen Thiala blind folk with a word and her many wings and her greatswords and her army of angels. And all she can think about is _Bev_ and him being _missing_ , _his_ god, _his_ faith, and how she _needs_ to find him _first_. How they have forty days and forty nights to plan. How she has obligations. How little rest she's going to get for all the planning.

" _We're saved!_ " They praise, a chorus of joy and fear, and she doesn't let her doubt show on her face. They're not saved, _not_ _yet_. There's work to be done, _always_ work to be done, but there are kind people who will help and she _knows_ that the brunt of the work can be carried by the masses if they ask them.

The world needs _heroes_ , so she can be that. The world needs _leaders_ , so she can lead. The world needs _legends_ , so she can become that.

And her skin itches with their gaze but she smiles and she stands straight and she beams with all she has and she lies _for_ _their_ _sake_.

(Only it's not and she knows it.)

And in Hell waits another responsibility, one she is _quickly_ realizing she needs to deal with as soon as she can. Pendergreens doesn't deserve what she's doing to him and she's got thirty days to refresh her shit before they go to get Thiala and put an end to the current bullshit.

Not the _forever_ bullshit, because Akarot continues to exist and there will _always_ be evil in the hearts of common folk, but the _current_ bullshit is _**much** more prescient_. And then she can go take her place with the wrought iron Hellfire Crown on her head, another burden to bear and another mistake she's gonna fix.

She'll do it because _they ask her to_. Because if she doesn't, _they'll_ do it instead, and she'd rather it be _her_ than _them_.

Because they're her family, they deserve _so much better_ , and she would do _anything_ to protect them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a quick Healing Word will patch you right up." — Moonshine Cybin (trademark Laslo)


	3. Beverly Toegold V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly, Bev, Young Bev, Dude, Bud, Brother, Beverly Toegold V, Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time waffling on how to do this but once I got into it, it came to me like a goddamn fountain of nonsense. Which is to say: turns out that a bit of good music and nothing better to do works wonders for my creative flow lmao. Should I be working on the monsters for my upcoming DND session? Probably. Am I doing this instead, yeah.
> 
> Procrastinating even on shit I like doing lmao. Big ol mood lmao.
> 
> Bev's shit took a hard turn into actually devastatingly sad when we got 97. Like, the consensus from the fandom has always been "Bev in particular is tragic because he is a child and cannot act as so due to his circumstances" but to hear Murph-as-Melora confirm that? "The world should have protected you but you protect it. What an honor. What an injustice." He came for my goddamn bones and took my heart while he was at it! Fucking stellar Murph! Owie.
> 
> I just...there's a lot about Bev that I think is hella tragic in a way I can't always express but hey, that's what rambly-ass fanfiction is for!
> 
> Unlike the other chapters, this one is much more all over the place. Heavy spoilers for everything up to and through 97 tho. It got just...so wildly sad. Guess I have a brand to maintain. (Which isn't to say that there isn't sweet or happy things here, just that the sorrow overpowers the sugar and sour of everything else. It's a bitter palate for sure.)
> 
> (I'm not ready for Bahumia to end but when it does, I will be content. I will find contentment in an ending. For now I will wait for 98 to come out and think about all the ways a fight with Pestilence and an Ancient Bronze Dracolich will go poorly considering their current situation.)
> 
> Thanks for your patience y'all! I meant to have this out earlier but, hey, shit happens. And then it keeps happening. So much. :,)

**i.**

It's his name. Beverly Toegold. He's the fifth halfling in his family to bear that name. He's his father's son. He's a very good boy. He loves his mom.

Sometimes his name feels like a burden though.

He's a Beverly Toegold so he _has_ to be the best Green Teen possible. He's a Beverly Toegold so he's _gonna_ be in the Knights, no matter what _his_ wishes are. He's a Beverly Toegold so any fault _he_ has reflects on his dad.

And he hears his name, a sigh, a disappointment, spoken with sadness as his dad looks at him and whatever his failure of the day is. " _Beverly_ " is accompanied by any complaint of the day. " _Beverly_ " means he's messed up and needs to stand at attention while his dad explains what he did wrong up. " _Beverly_ " means that he has to hold back tears and smile and nod, " _yessir, of course, never again_ ".

His name is Beverly and _sometimes_ the noises that make it up are chains that bind him to a place and a fate that he's starting to fear, to _hate_.

But he won't say that to his dad or his mom because he doesn't want to disappoint them. And, in spite of it all, he _does_ want to be a Green Knight. Just maybe not the captain.

* * *

**ii.**

He has friends, _in spite of_ who his dad is. _Most_ people are actually intimidated by Captain Toegold, but not _them_. Not _him_.

Erlin is his neighbor. They've been friends longer than either of them can remember. His mom even has pictures of the two of them, covered in mud, completely naked and as happy as two children could be. It's _embarrassing_ but...that's his _best friend_. He's never _not_ been friends with him. It's Erlin who first calls him "Bev".

"Beverly's your _dad's_ name, dude," he explains. They probably were like...eight or so, out catching bugs for one reason or another, and Erlin is staring up at the clouds while Bev asks _why_. "So let's make this one _yours_. Your dad is Beverly, you're _Bev_. You're _you_."

They exchange a bright grin and that's that. He's Bev now, when informality allows for it.

Cran and Durlin are surprises though. When Bev and Erlin join the Green Teen program, they hadn't been certain who in Galaderon would be there, but to find Durlin Brightfoot—whose mom works with the government and is _kinda_ notoriously snobby about who her family interacts with—and Cran Merryweather—whose family isn't _particularly_ well-off, so the fact that they could afford the fees to join is _wild_ —in their troop is _staggering_. It takes a whole day before the four of them are making jokes like they've been friends the whole time, though, and that's only coz Denny keeps them too busy to talk amongst themselves. It would have been sooner, otherwise.

And if Bev stumbles over his introduction, mouth moving to say "Beverly Toegold V" only to be cut off by Erlin interjecting "Bev", they don't say a word.

The Green Teens becomes a safe place for him to experiment and, maybe if he'd had more time there, he would have found more of his truth. As it is, he's happy just having found the joy of being _Bev_.

No one expects _anything_ of Bev. He's a kid. A Green Teen. He's _learning_.

He's free to discover who he is as Bev.

* * *

**iii.**

It's strange to have his opinion _matter_. Not to say that his opinion _doesn't_ matter, coz it _does_ , but to have adults listen to him like his ideas are _good_? _That's_ a new feeling.

_Sure_ , Denny lost Cran, Durlin, and Erlin. _Sure_ , he hired two strangers to assist Bev in finding them. _Sure_ , this is dangerous.

But in spite of all his grousing, Hardwon—who is this big human guy with an axe and a laugh that's too loud and too hard to be completely sincere—gives him space to offer solutions to problems they encounter. And in spite of her rough edges, Moonshine—a Crick elf, this wild and messy woman with no social graces but a wisdom behind her eyes that he is mystified by—listens to him like he's an adult too.

"What do _you_ think, young Bev?" She asks and he doesn't know what to do because no one older than him has _ever_ asked that question with such honesty and sincerity.

They _want_ to know what he thinks. They _want_ him to contribute. They consider him _equal_ to them and that's _so strange_. It bolsters his spirit and buoys his chest. He feels welcome and at home and cared for. He feels like this is just an extension of his troop, his family, his friends.

He's barely known these people for a day and they already value his opinion as if they've known him for years.

It almost makes him cry for the novelty of it all, but he puts on a brave face. He offers what he considers to be good ideas. He takes his losses with grace.

And every time they call him "young Bev", every time they ask for his opinion, every time they turn to him for information they don't have access to, he is breathless for the love of it all.

* * *

**iv.**

He isn't sure when his admiration and friendship for Erlin becomes something more. If you asked him, he might be able to give a vague handwavey answer of "probably when we were like... _nine_ or something?" but even that's a guess. Still, he isn't sure the degree to which his affection is love until Hardwon and Moonshine jokingly tease him about it.

His face heats up and he stammers around an answer as he tries to justify that, no, _okay_ , Erlin is his _best friend_ is all! But a small, nagging voice in his head insists it's _more_ than that. That there's _more_ than friendship there. And even after they drop it, he can't help but think.

When Erlin calls out to him, relief and joy in the exaltation of "Dude!", Bev becomes more certain of the fact that he loves him. So certain that it liquifies his nerves and turns his bones to jelly. He can't move for the realization. But he's always been good at faking a smile, so he soldiers on.

Moonshine and Hardwon tease him, like they do, and he doesn't hate that they are to him what Egwene is to Erlin, because he can get flustered in a safe space. They elbow him in the ribs and make kissing noises and laugh when he can't find the words for what Erlin means to him, but they never push farther than mild discomfort, to his great relief.

When he sleeps, he hears Erlin calling " _dude_!" and wants to make his home in his arms. When he's awake he's fighting to make him proud, so he has some neat stories to tell him when they get back home and everything is done. When he does actually get to go home—being carried because he messed up because he's just a kid and, _haha_ , a classic Beeferly goof, making a god mad, breaking your legs, _way to go_ you _absolute_ doofus—he doesn't have time to think because suddenly things are _so_ _much_ **_so fast_**.

Then Erlin kisses him and oh? _Oh!_ **_Oh._**

_Yeah._

And he kisses him back, thinking "I wanna be your dude" with all he has.

* * *

**v.**

Balnor is _strange_. At first it's just that he has this person and _having_ a person is weird like, are you _allowed_ to just _have_ a person? But as time continues onward, he finds that there's a comfort in how unchanging he is.

Even as Moonshine becomes angrier and sadder and learns and grows. Even as Hardwon opens up in some ways and closes off in others, bolstered by loss and heartbreak and guilt. Even as _he_ tries to deal with guilt and panic and the fact that this isn't _just_ his summer break, but maybe how things are gonna be for a bit. Even in spite of all that, Balnor is who he is and _that's all._

He misses his dad. As hard as it was to be around him sometimes, he's still his dad. His daddy. And Bev is still a kid, _despite_ the burden he carries. Kids miss their parents. But Balnor? Balnor is _like_ a dad? Dad-adjacent. _Dad-jacent_. And that's _comforting_.

Waking up in the middle of the night from a dream that's fire and angels and ash and pillars of salt and panic, he steps out of bed to see Balnor already awake. Balnor pats the spot next to him and smiles. " _C'mere_ , bud." And Bev sits down and leans up against him and they don't say anything but he feels _better_. He doesn't even notice when he falls asleep again, only that he wakes up in bed again, under the covers.

When they learn _who_ Balnor is, what he _used to be_ , what he's _meant_ to do, Bev can't help but want to be there for him. He deserves the support, the care, the love that _he_ gave _them_ , back when he didn't know and they didn't either. But he also needs space.

When Balnor calls him "bud" there's longing and love and he thinks about Erlin and his dad and friends and family and choice and fate. And Bev calls him "dad" because it's there, in the weave of it all, hidden behind kindness and care.

He wonders if it's a betrayal of his dad, doing this. He wonders if his dad would have done the same Balnor was doing if he had been in his place.

He wonders...

* * *

**vi.**

Bev has always been an only child. Once he asked his mom why that was and she had dismissively said something about "not enough time" and "duties and work". He didn't realize then what she meant. He just nodded and ran off to play with Erlin and Egwene. He knows now but it doesn't matter.

Still, despite being an only child, Bev was endlessly _fascinated_ with Erlin and Egwene's relationship. They were like friends—like Erlin and Bev themselves—but _more_. Angrier, sharper, kinder, _stranger_. Egwene was mean to Erlin but he never seemed bothered by it, shrugging it off with an offhand comment of "it's _Egwene_ ", like that explained _anything_.

When he started traveling with Hardwon and Moonshine, he started to figure it out, the whole sibling thing.

He wouldn't consider them parental figures—Moonshine was _much_ too _wild_ and Hardwon _much_ too _closed off_ —but maybe they were something closer to Egwene for him.

Sometimes they got on his nerves—teasing him about Erlin, joking at his expense, making notes about his age or experience, treating him like a little kid—and sometimes they supported him _in spite_ of his decision being a markedly _bad_ one—the bullywug mating call, kissing Terran, trying out new things—but they never meant him harm. And when he was hurting they carried him home as fast as they could, suffering microaggressions from the rich folks of Upper Galaderon and his dad. When he was sad they curled in bed with him and reassured him it was alright, that they were gonna make sure it turned out okay, that they'd kill for him if it would help. When he was happy, they were happy for him, listening to him talk about Erlin for hours even though he's sure they've heard every story he has about him a dozen times over.

And if that's what Egwene is for Erlin, then they're his sister and brother. They're his siblings.

When Hardwon takes the Death Lance to his chest—the latest of many blows he's taken for other people at the expense of his own health and safety—a panic lances through him because _no!_ That's his brother! He _can't_ lose him too! _He can't!_

When Moonshine drops in the fight against Death—the first time that she's actually gotten that badly hurt, though he's panicked before during Mage Madness, in Hell, in Shadowfell—he _screams_ because that's his sister and she _deserves_ happiness. She deserves to be alive! She deserves to see the fruit of her labors! She can't go yet! He won't _let_ her!

So, _sure_ , Bev may be an only child, but he has the best brother and sister he could have ever asked for.

* * *

**vii.**

His name is Beverly Toegold. He's the fifth in his family to carry this name. It's an honor. It's a burden.

He is the last of his name.

He's always _kinda_ known that he'd be the last of his name, that there wouldn't be a Beverly Toegold VI, because he likes Erlin. There really wouldn't be a chance for him to have a kid, let alone one to carry on the legacy.

Then his dad makes a deal with Akarot. Then he kills Akarot, allowing his dad to fall farther into his contract with the Hells. Then he kills his dad, sending him to the Dusk Mother to repent and find peace. And his dad is gone, as is his grandfather, and he won't have a kid, so the name dies with him.

Beverly Toegold V, last of his name, wonders if he's made a mistake somewhere. If any of this was something he could fix. If he hadn't sent his father to the Faewild, if he hadn't been too late saving him, if he hadn't killed Akarot, if he hadn't descended into Hell, if _if **if—?!**_

But spit in one hand, wish in the other, you'll just have a wet hand.

So he bears his name with a grim resignation.

He is Beverly Toegold V. An honor. A burden. A dying breed.

* * *

**viii.**

He's not _just_ a kid. He's a hero too.

These strange mirroring facts make him nauseous for their interactions. Like when a noise rings in your head and hammers your collarbone and the frequencies make you sick for their dissonance.

He's a kid. He _deserves_ to be a kid. He _can't_ though, for all his desires. The world is a dangerous place and he's seen the danger first-hand and, while he _is_ a kid, he is too much more than that to selfishly return to being a kid.

So he puffs his chest. He finds his faith. He searches for answers. He apologizes. And all the while, people look up to him and he has to smile, awkward and insincere, metal and rubber and _**please** stop, I **just** want to go get some coffee._ He is a shield, a paladin, a bastion of faith and hope, a figurehead.

He is a kid. He cooks with his mom. He misses his boyfriend. He has nightmares about the things he's seen. He makes crude jokes and writes foolish love letters to Erlin, full of poetry and panic and raw emotion.

He is a hero. He attends war councils. He plans for the future assault on Thiala. He researches the horsemen. He prays for guidance and health and safety. He thinks about casualties and damages and how the world will recover.

He doesn't know if he likes the juxtaposition between these facts. Between Bev the kid and Bev the hero. Between his wants and the truth of the matter.

He squares his shoulders. He selfishly cries at night about how unfair it is. He sleeps alone to punish himself, the vastness of a bed not occupied by three other people an ocean of comfort he drowns in. He apologizes to people he once knew for not being there to help their families. He avoids eye contact with Egwene because he _knows_ it's his fault. He practices drills until his hands are numb. He heals until his body is hollow of divine magic, the emptiness setting his body shaking.

He draws solace from the fact that he's not alone. That he has Hardwon and Moonshine and Balnor in the same position he's in. That he can turn to Erdan and Jolene and Lucanus and Jaina and Cyrus and Grimthor and all the other leaders in Gladeholm for advice and directions.

He throws himself into the roles he's been given with all he has, in spite of his age and experience.

He's already failed so much. He _won't_ fail again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will leave psychological wounds that will never heal." — Beverly Toegold V (trademark Laslo)


	4. Balnor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balnor, Keeper of the Bags, Our Weak Dad, Balnor the Brave, Our Strong Dad, A Boob, Dad, Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here. Finale day. And to celebrate, I listened to Dear Wormwood on repeat until I legitimately cried and finished this chapter.
> 
> It's been a while since a show could make me feel like this. TAZ: Balance is the last one, tbh, and even then, I'm more active with the NADDPOD community than I ever was with the TAZ community so it just hits different, yanno?
> 
> Anyway, happy finale day. Made myself sad about Balnor but this one has some real heavy tender vibes and hope laced through it.
> 
> Take care of yourselves. We have 6 hours left before it's over.
> 
> We got this. It's not the end of the world.

**i.**

It's his name, _isn't it?_ Balnor? That's what comes to mind when he's asked. There's a flash of confusion on their faces, like they can't decide how to react to that—his confusion about _his name_ —then the three of them nod.

His name is Balnor.

That's _all_ he remembers.

There's more, there, lingering back in the muddling subconscious of his mind, hidden behind purple and blue and smoke and _fear_ and **_anger_** , but it's lost. He doesn't know those things. He doesn't even remember they _existed_ , let alone that he doesn't remember them.

He's forgetting he's forgotten.

 _What_ has he forgotten?

His name is Balnor. _That_ he knows, an irrefutable fact. _Kinda_ sorta, maybe _sometimes_ , possibly _or_ always, his name is Balnor. He's here to help them, tasked to do so by some grand magic, and _his name is Balnor._

And the three of them, those people who are his—or is it that _he_ is _theirs_?—call him that, when they call him. Still, it's strange. His name is Balnor and that's _all_ he knows, but something about Beverly makes him pause.

He's familiar and _not_ and he wants to protect him and reach out and clutch him close and apologize _for what_? What is it about Beverly that makes him worry, _fear_ , **_scream_ **out in his fitful sleep and clench, _clutch_ , **_catch_ **in his staggering wake?

 _What_ is he forgetting he's forgotten? And _why_ does it hurt when all he has is his name?

Who _is_ Balnor, really? What has he lost?

What is the hollow that sits in his chest and resonates with an echoing love he has no words for the _enormity_ of it all?

* * *

**ii.**

They hand him things. _It's fair._ He isn't _particularly_ gifted in combat—a soft response, something about old men and war, comes to mind the first time they note this but it dies in his throat, something he's forgetting he's forgotten again—so if he wants to find use, he'll have to settle for carrying their bags. It's not _bad_ though. He doesn't mind it. Even knee-deep in crick mud and sweating like a horse, he doesn't complain.

It gives him _something_ to do, holding the bags. Responsibility. And while his tenuous grasp on what is and isn't resets back to what probably passes for normal—the ever-present feeling of forgetting he's forgotten something constantly battering his already shaky memory about like a rock tumbler—he can carry their bags and learn more about them like he's learning about himself.

Balnor, Keeper of the Bags—a title said with a _small_ amount of insincerity at first, though he can hear the affection seep through the more time passes—finds you can learn a lot about a person by what they carry, what is in their bag.

 _Moonshine_ , he learns, doesn't have much to hold, save what she keeps on her person. Moonshine cooks as a form of love and gives gifts in the same vein. Moonshine carries other people's burdens so that they don't have to, well aware it is breaking her. Moonshine holds her anger in and opens her arms, unwilling to be inhospitable even if someone is taking advantage of her.

( _Balnor_ , he learns, wants to take her by the hand and let her know he's here to help bear that weight. Balnor wants her to smile more, not just to cover up the uglier parts of her, but because she is genuinely happy. Balnor wants to lavish her in the love she deserves. Balnor wants her to know she's not alone.)

 _Hardwon_ , he learns, has a lot for him to carry, all little inconsequential things, all with the same weight and reverence as if they were grand and important. Hardwon fought his whole life to even make it this far, so he holds on to every little victory. Hardwon cares for Moonshine and Beverly more than he cares for himself, each scar he bears for them a mark of pride. Hardwon is used to having nothing and getting nothing in return and isn't certain what to do now. Hardwon lets his guilt be manifest and keeps reminders of every one of his failures, no matter how small.

( _Balnor_ , he learns, wants to let him know he has value. Balnor wants him to relax and know he can enjoy what he has while he has it. Balnor wants to push him out of danger because he needs to care for himself, too. Balnor wants him to let go of the past if it's weighing him down.)

 _Beverly_ , he learns, often grabs anything that garners his attention—either for his own collections or for his friends—childishly and without abandon. Beverly worries more than he lets on. Beverly holds on to any adult relationship he makes with a strange sort of fear. Beverly owns more items used in combat and war than anyone his age should. Beverly wears a cracked amulet around his neck that he never takes off and clenches it at night when the nightmares wake him up.

( _Balnor_ , he learns, wants to take him up in his arms and beg him to not fight any longer—a selfish desire that he recognizes as him forgetting he's forgotten something but still remembering the feeling. Balnor wants to press flowers in his hands instead of blades. Balnor wants to be the one he turns to when he's most afraid.)

He carries the bag and their secrets and learns and _learns_ and **_learns_**. He's _still_ forgetting what he's forgotten but he knows more than before.

He knows he loves them. He knows they love him. He knows he would die for them. He knows _they wouldn't let him._

He knows his name and he knows these things too.

* * *

**iii.**

"Everyone needs to fight. Even old men who don't know how," he finds himself saying one day, unbidden. The three of them turn to look at him, brows furrowed in concern.

" _Huh?_ " Bev asks, his voice pitching slightly.

" _Just_...something someone said to me once. I...don't remember the _context_ , but it matters _a whole lot_ , I think." He frowns for a second, then turns up to face them. They've stopped what they're doing—save for Hardwon, who is piloting _the Stormborn_ with expert care—and have closed the distance between them. "It makes me feel...more _sure_ of myself, I think. More sure I'm _supposed_ to be here, _with you_ , doing _this_. Even if I can't fight all that well."

Moonshine sweeps him up in a hug and Bev presses his face against his shoulder, his arms thrown around them both. "Now don't you go talkin' like that," she says. "You're _just_ as strong as you need to be."

"You're our weak dad," Bev jokes, "it's not _your_ fault we're freakishly powerful."

"Not everyone can kick ass like we can!" Hardwon adds from the helm.

" _S'ides_ ," Moonshine continues as if she wasn't being talked over by two enthusiastic goobers, "you don't need to do _anything_ you don't want to."

 _But I do_ , he wants to say, knowing he's forgotten he's forgetting, the echoing emptiness of purpose howling loud in the wind. _I **do** need to do this. There's a war. **Everyone** needs to fight._

_Even old men who **don't know how.**_

But he _doesn't_. He just hugs them back, his heart in his throat, and pretends like he's fine, even if they all _know_ he's not.

* * *

**iv.**

_His name is Balnor._

When he's twenty-four, he falls in love with a young woman in his village. Her name is Marianne and she can swing a sword better than _anyone_ else, though there's no need for fighters here, where they're safe. It's an antiquated skill, but one she's honed to a fine edge. Watching her train when the sun rises is like watching the dance of dragonflies over water. It feels like a force of nature in and of itself. He feels _privileged_ to get to view it, even if it's in secret at first.

When she invites him to watch in the open instead of halfway up a tree, he almost drops to his knee then, but there are traditions and _he waits_.

He's glad he _did_. Knowing her is better when there's no expectations. He learns to love her all over again, from close up, and _she reciprocates._

He's never felt _so_ blessed before.

_His name is Balnor._

Bobby is born when he's about forty. The midwife hands over this small, screaming mess of a child, and he's _smitten_. Faster than when he set eyes on his wife, he knows he's meant to love his child. Even as Marianne slowly recovers from the ordeal, he stays up and makes sure their son is okay and safe and cared for.

Bobby grows up surrounded by love. And while he wants the best for his son, he knows that experience builds understanding, so he never stops Bobby from doing something he shouldn't. He simply warns him away from it and, when he comes back with tears in his eyes, tends to the mess.

After all, there's nothing to fear in their safe village. It's hidden. Warriors like Marianne are for show more than they are for _actual_ combat. The only visitor they've had is the wizard Alanis. No one would _actually_ hurt them.

Until they _do_.

_His name is Balnor._

He is the last person left in his village. He's buried everyone else. From his parents— _well_ into their second century and going strong—to his wife and child, _he mourns them all_. Then he dons Marianne's armor and takes up her blade and starts to practice. He isn't surprised when Alanis returns, his skill less than Marianne's but greater than it _was_ , and throws himself at her feet. He knows what she's asking, what this would entail, but he _can't_ be here anymore. Not alone.

_He can't._

Alanis, who he's only seen once before _in person_ , though he's heard tale of her since he was little, presses a warm hand against his cheek and _comforts him._ He barely knows her and _she weeps for him,_ quiet and sincere. But he pushes, agrees to have his memory wiped, agrees to go back in time and _prevent it all_. So she smiles, sad, insincere, tired, and he understands that he knows only _a fraction_ of her sorrow.

Then there's purple and blue and smoke and **_nothing_**.

 _Then_ there's Beverly and Hardwon and Moonshine.

 _Then_ he drags Beverly out of harm's way and _that's it_. The moment he was _meant_ to change.

And they're flying blind.

* * *

**v.**

_He remembers now_. It's _too much_ and _not enough_ all at once but he remembers. He's _so_ close to what would be his home, if it were the right time, but they can't afford to dally. Not even for an old man who's feeling nostalgic.

They have a mission.

Bev's father is with them, with Queen Cirilla in tow, as they flee the Summer Court for Autumn. They want to take a breather but the Hounds will catch them. They _always_ find their prey.

This is something Balnor knows _too_ well.

_Corpses and fish and mud underneath his fingernails for **days** as he sweats and swings a sword until his hands crack and bleed. Sword wounds and lacerations and magic and **teeth**. Body parts strewn about. **A massacre.**_

**_His home._ **

They can't _afford_ to wait. They can't _afford_ to be distracted. They have to be _clever_. They have to plan.

And plan they do.

Visceral catharsis in the revenge. "Will you bleed out or suffocate first?" Visceral, _bloody_ catharsis. He doesn't feel lighter for it, but the shroud of fear that has sunk over him is _gone_.

They're at war. They _need_ to fight. Even old men who don't know how to.

But he knows how to, now. He can swing a sword and take a blow and he has three _wonderful_ people who do it alongside him and keep him going in the roughest patches.

And there is a soft humming pride in his chest as Bev points to him and says "That's _Balnor_ , he's our strong dad!"

( _Do you see that, Marianne? Bobby? I'm still doing good. I'm still **doing you proud.**_ )

And he knows. _He knows._

* * *

**vi.**

There is a rhythm to their madness, he's found. Despite the levity they display and the dismissal they often show to their foes, there is a _point_ to it all. It takes a moment to sink in, though. And a moment longer for him to get it himself.

"It's like _this_ ," Hardwon says. They're sitting at a fire, having made camp for the night, and he's explaining the point of razzing your enemy, "if they're too distracted by your words, they won't notice what you're doing. I can talk a mile a minute and you won't care. Won't do shit to disguise the fact that I was about to chuck a rock at your head. _But_ if I'm making it _personal_ , making light of you and yours? _Then_ you're more focused on my _face_ and _less_ on my hands."

Bev chimes in, "It's a common tactic in prestidigitation! Misdirection is the _best_ way to assure that your mark doesn't know they're being taken! But _in combat_ it means drawing your opponents ire so they go after _you_ instead of someone with less armor or less health."

" _Exactly_! Fucking tanking is _smart_. It's why Moonie here has taken to getting a little pissed during combat!" Hardwon gestures to Moonshine, who has returned with four plates of something grilled that smell delicious.

"But why make jokes? Why not _actually_ try and hurt them emotionally then?" It's not as if he doesn't understand the point. It's just that he's having a hard time understanding the finer points of it.

"Coz you can call someone a name a whole lot but _eventually_ it's gonna stop hurting." Hardwon is blunt and it catches Balnor off guard for a half second before he nods, understanding.

"But if you say ' _who's this clown?_ ' then you're implying that one: they're a clown and two: they're not even good enough to be _memorable_." Bev grins around a mouthful of his food. Hardwon snorts and gestures affirmative with his fork. "More devastating that way."

He thinks, for a moment, about how young Bev is. Moonshine and Hardwon too, _comparatively_. He thinks about burying a whole village and how the pain felt like it was consuming him. He thinks about Moonshine and Marabelle. About Hardwon and Gemma. About Bev and his father. About smiles through tears.

He thinks about how it's easier to smile the more you do it.

" _Yeah_ ," he says, nodding and tucking into his plate, "makes sense."

_Keep it light, right?_

You'll drown in darkness otherwise.

* * *

**vii.**

It's _small_. Little moments here and there.

He gets up in the middle of the night to pee and Moonshine jolts awake, her eyes reflecting the small amount of light the hallway lets in. When he comes back, she settles down like a startled animal, though he catches a soft, " _Night Balnor_ " when she snuggles back against Hardwon's shoulder.

He makes a bad joke and they all groan like it personally injured them. He laughs so hard he almost throws up but it's worth it when Moonshine is at his side with a cup of water and Hardwon has thrown a pillow at his head with a grumbled " _fucking dad_ ".

Bev admits in the darkness of night that he misses home. He misses his mom. That he finds things are a little unfair. Balnor doesn't say a word but lets him lean against him and relax. As he's drifting off finally, he lets out a content sigh, and whispers, " _thanks, dad_." Balnor's heart stops a little.

He buried his wife and his son, but gained two sons and a daughter in the aftermath. He couldn't be more proud.

* * *

**viii.**

_Marianne_ believed in heroes, _not_ him. Raising Bobby, he was the pragmatist. The down-to-earth one. The feet to the dirt and head on his shoulders one. But Bobby _still_ heard tales of adventurers and dragons and demons and angels because _Marianne_ believed in them.

She _always_ believed in the greater good, even if the evil wasn't visible.

He's _certain_ he's doing her proud now.

And the tales he'd have for Bobby!

" _Once upon a time, there was an angry young crick elf and a devil at the crossroads_ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a princess and a bastard and their love was a forbidden one._ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a crick elf who had gotten in too deep, drowning in debt to vampires._ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a paladin named Lydia who was tired of people making decisions for her._ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a shard of something evil that fell into the hands of someone far kinder than he'd ever encountered before._ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a man who met the daughter he never knew he had._ "

" _Once upon a time, there were two boys in love._ "

" _Once upon a time, there was a necromancer who wanted to do good but didn't have the power to back up his ambitions._ "

" _Once upon a time, there were gods walking the surface of Bahumia._ "

" _Once upon a time there was a trio of eladrin who killed a goblin god._ "

" _Once upon a time, four adventurers saved an old man._ "

 _Marianne_ was the one that believed in heroes, but he's certain he can believe in them enough for them _both_ now. He can hold a sword in her name, and the name of _everyone_ he won't have to bury in the future. He can be what she needs so that she can, in _whatever_ capacity, live her life in peace.

And even if Bobby won't have these stories to hear, _someone_ will. And that's enough.

He _did_ his job. The scales have tipped in their favor. And now, come hell or high water, the world will be different for it.

 _Marianne_ believed in heroes. Bobby loved _hearing_ about them. _He_ got to _be_ one.

He _hopes_ , with _all_ he has, he's doing them _proud_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but if you come here, we can get that cleaned up for ya, bud." — Balnor (trademark Laslo)


End file.
